


McHotFuzz

by Jakallx



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: A fair amount of fluff, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Cats, Eventual Smut, Exactly what it says on the packet, Hanzo is a Mess, Hot Fuzz, Humor, M/M, Midsummer Murders, Mystery, Small Town Romance, Small town murders, Some angst, none of this is original, this is so dumb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakallx/pseuds/Jakallx
Summary: Jesse McCree is a born and bred big city cop. That all changes when a routine stakeout goes horribly wrong. He disobeyed a direct order, put his partner in danger, lost his arm, and worst of all: the perps got away.Now he's off the case and on his way to Little Nasford to cool his head. But this cosy, little retirement town in the middle of nowhere isn't what it seems. For starters, his landlord and the owner of the florist downstairs looks like he's straight out of a Yakuza crime movie and the Inspector keeps trying to do everything in her power to stop McCree poking his nose into any business that isn't a local hedge dispute.It becomes quickly apparent that the town has some dark secrets and when people start to go missing... well, looks like McCree is going to have to investigate.Not going to lie, it's the plot of Hot Fuzz combined with that Hound of Baskerville episode of Sherlock mashed with a Flower Shop AU. I wrote this in 2017 and forgot about it for a year lol





	1. Chapter 1

What do you say when you suddenly realise that you’ve just woken up in a hospital and are missing your left arm from the elbow down?

In Jesse McCree’s case, those words turn out to be, “well, shit,” and are quickly followed by a rising sense of panic that constricts his lungs leaving him gasping for breath and desperately trying to clutch a hand that is no longer there.

A throat clears from beside him and he looks up into Commander Reyes’s tired, unimpressed, yet strangely sympathetic eyes. “I didn’t want my first words to you to be ‘you’re a fucking idiot,’” Reyes rumbles in his deep voice—

—and Jesse knows what’s coming, feels the pinpricks of shame in the corners of his eyes, and _shit goddamn,_ he is _not_ going to cry in front of the Commander, no matter how bad things are right now—

“But you’re a fucking idiot, McCree.”

Jesse looks away from Reyes’s hard eyes, but ends up looking straight at the bandaged stump at his elbow and he hisses out a breath. Feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder before the panicked hyperventilation gets too much.

“Hey, son. Deep breaths. I’m sorry about your arm.” Reyes sighs out.

There’s a long pause and when Jesse doesn’t say anything, Reyes continues. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear Genji made it out alive and somehow managed to stop you from bleeding out before your backup arrived.” He pats Jesse on the shoulder before getting to his feet. It takes Jesse a few moments to realise that Reyes is dressed for work, black leather jacket over a crisp white shirt concealing the handgun beneath. He must have come in to the hospital on his lunch break.

“Morrison will be around to see you soon. He’s going to have a talk about what’s going to happen now. We had to cover a lot up from the press.” Reyes’s eyes pierce into Jesse’s soul, “the higher-ups are probably going to try and discharge you—

Jesse’s head snaps up and he almost growls out, “that’s not gonna—

“Which I know you won’t accept, so Morrison and I are going to try and work something out. Besides, you’d probably be more hindrance outside than in. But from what Genji reported, you’re on thin ice, McCree. You need to cool your head and get your priorities straight ‘cause right now you’re a danger, not just to yourself, but to your fellow officers.”

“Genji? Is he?” Jesse almost doesn’t want to know. _God,_ he really was a selfish idiot.

“Genji is fine.” Reyes shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “No thanks to you. The perps got away though, and you’d do well to remember you’re probably priority one for them now. That’s why you’ve got officers Kirk and Dob kindly posted outside your door to keep you safe and tucked in at night.” Reyes gives him a thin smile. “You’re also on medical leave effective immediately, but I expect a full report in the next couple of days.”

And with those parting words, Reyes leaves without a backwards glance.

Jesse feels utterly helpless as he watches Reyes pause and have a word with the officers outside his private hospital room. Both officers briefly turn to stare at Jesse. They were dressed in their blue uniforms with combat vests over the top. The backs of the vests had POLICE written in reflective block letters with the Overwatch Corps symbol stamped beneath.

Jesse sighs. What had he gone and gotten himself into? Granted, it was the interesting, danger-filled career he’d always hoped for, but now he was missing half an arm and awaiting whatever the Commanders were going to decide for his future. He puts his face in his hands.

_Hand._

Shit.

“Never thought I’d see the proud Jesse McCree, self-proclaimed cowboy, and cocky bastard, feeling sorry for himself.”

Jesse almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of Genji’s voice from right next to him. Damn ninjas. He hadn’t even heard his door open.

Genji smiles sadly at Jesse and nods his head at the missing arm. “I’m sorry about your arm. I couldn’t save it from being crushed.”

Jesse swallows and looks up at the pity in Genji’s eyes. The scars on his face seem less pronounced today.

“If it’s any consolation,” Genji says softly, “I know how it feels.”

Jesse clenches his teeth as his remaining hand grips the hospital bedding so hard his knuckles turn white. Then his lips quirk up. “No ya don’t. You’ve still got your left arm.” He almost laughs as Genji’s eyes turn dangerous and hooded and the half-cyborg goes to turn away.

But then he finds himself desperately reaching out and catching Genji’s arm—his left one, the still human one—and holding on for dear life as it all overwhelms him. He’s thankful Genji can’t see his sorry face as the cyborg leans down and lets Jesse ride out the sobs wracking his body. Genji settles onto the bed and pats Jesse on the back murmuring that it’ll all be ok.

As Jesse finally stops and blows his nose loudly on his bedsheets, Genji laughs softly and says, “you’re a fool, McCree.”

“A lucky fool,” Jesse leans back heavily and looks up at Genji. “I’m sorry for putting you in danger. Thanks for saving my life. Again.”

“What are partners for?” Genji leans back and lies across Jesse’s legs, his own prosthetic ones hanging off the bed. He was dressed in his usual civilian clothes, an obnoxious bright green t-shirt with a bunny rabbit slogan plastered on the front and black jeans hiding the rest of his cyborg limbs.

“Dunno how long we’ll still be partners for,” Jesse sighs out. “Reyes is _pissed_. Said the higher-ups would probably call for me to be discharged.”

Genji jerks his head up. “No! They can’t do that—

“I know, I know. Reyes said he and Morrison were going to try and work something out. But I don’t like the sound of that in the slightest. It’s my own damn fault whatever ends up happening though.”

“It’s not your fault. You saw it too, right? Those gang members were strange. Did you notice how—

Genji is cut off by a soft knock at the door. They both sit up to attention when Commander Morrison walks in, his perfect blue dress uniform a model for what the Overwatch Police Corps stands for. Morrison motions his hand and they slump, at ease.

“Officer Shimada. McCree.” Morrison smiles a little, the lines crinkling either side of his blue eyes. “Apologies to cut your visit short, but I’d like to speak to McCree alone.”

“Not at all, Commander,” Genji easily replies. He slides off the bed and squeezes Jesse’s shoulder. “I’ll be back later. Might bring you something worth eating rather than the crap they try and feed you here.” Genji shakes his head darkly and mutters as he walks out of the room.

Jesse rubs the corner of his eye, trying to think of what he’s done to deserve a friend like Genji. Morrison pulls him out of his own self-pity when he sits down in the chair next to Jesse’s bed and crosses his legs.

“I’d like to hear what happened that night, McCree. I expect a full report later, but for now I want your account. We might still have a shot of catching the perps.”

“They were Talon members,” Jesse supplies.

“We know that much. Genji said he found you pinned under a wall after you ignored Reyes's orders and split up.”

Jesse had been about to interrupt when he snaps his mouth shut again. How could he have been such an idiot? And Genji was right. There had been something strange about the Talon members. He is silent for a moment, trying to get the events of the night straight in his head first before they come tumbling out of his mouth.

“I haven’t got all day, McCree.”

“Right,” says Jesse. He takes a deep breath and recounts what happened.

* * *

It was just a standard routine stakeout. Jesse and Genji had been on the tail of the Talon gang members for weeks. Right up until they had thought they might have lost everything a couple of days ago. Trail gone cold. But then they received a call from their contact at the docks. There was movement, and it definitely wasn’t the legal kind.

Reyes had given them permission for a stakeout only. “Just eyes on the area. _Don’t_ go in without backup.” He chews a piece of gum furiously and almost spits out his words. “And at the moment, I don’t have the resources for backup. How the goddamn City Council expects me to keep them safe without any funds is a fucking mystery, but here we are. Now. Repeat after me: I will not engage with any perps without backup arriving first or Commander Reyes’s express permission.”

Jesse and Genji just stare at their commanding officer.

“Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?” Jesse asks.

Reyes pauses in his gum-chewing and takes a step towards them. Which has them both backing up and tripping over themselves to repeat his instructions.

“Don’t have to worry about us, Sir. Officers McCree and Shimada Playing-it-Safe is our middle name.” Jesse bites his own tongue to shut himself up. Genji, meanwhile, looks like he is struggling to keep his face under control.

Reyes just sighs and rolls his eyes.

And so it was with this mantra running through their heads, that Genji and Jesse watched three Talon members meet down at the city docks on a Thursday evening. Light rain drizzled from the sky and all in all it had been a rather boring night until now.

“Call for backup,” Jesse hisses at Genji, fumbling as he tries to pull his gun out of its holster while sitting.

“Already way ahead of you.”

There’s a few tense seconds where they both watch the gang members have what looks like a heated argument barely a hundred metres from their parked car.

Reyes’s voice comes through the tinny radio speaker. “Ok, I have four officers on the way. Do not engage until they arrive.”

“You got it, Sir,” says Jesse softly.

Then one of the gang members pushes another, whips out his gun and shoots the man in the head before snatching a briefcase from the dead man’s hands. He runs.

Jesse looks at Genji. Genji looks at Jesse.

Genji opens his mouth, “don’t—

But Jesse is already out of the car, gun in his hands and running after the perps. He can dimly hear Reyes yelling on the radio, “god fucking damnit, McCree—

But then it’s lost to the sound of his boots hitting the wet pavement. Jesse is fast and he knows he’ll be able to catch up. He winds in and out of the shipping containers aiming for the spot where the gang members had disappeared.

He rounds a corner and spots them, but at that moment one of them glances around and sees him. The Talon member shouts, and that is the precise moment that all hell breaks loose. Jesse slides to a stop behind a container just as a bullet pings off it, narrowly missing his shoulder.

He swears, but hears the sound of running again and decides to take his chances. He swings out to the other side of the container and catches a glimpse of one veering off to the left. The one with the case. Jesse takes off after him, heart thumping and chest heaving.

They weave in and out of containers, the gang member leading him right down to the edge of the docks. Jesse pumps his arms, trying to catch up, but smiles when he realises just where the perp has backed himself into.

A high brick wall divides the docks, right down to the edge of the water.

Dead end. Jesse brings up his gun and aims for the legs. “Police! Stop or I’ll shoot!” He manages to wheeze just as the perp reaches the wall.

And then _blurs._ The man leaps up and catches the top of the wall, vaulting over in one fluid movement.

Jesse grunts as he careens into the wall, unable to stop his own momentum. He looks up at the top of the wall, almost three metres above him. “What the hell—

He starts to say, when there’s an almighty crash on the other side of the wall and suddenly the bricks are leaning over him and teetering and falling—

Jesse tries to run. He does. But he can’t stop a massive part of the wall as it hits his shoulder and sends him to the ground.

* * *

“And then everything went black. I remember it hurting. A lot.” Jesse rubs his shoulder, wincing at the bruised tissue he’s only just realised is also part of his injuries. “Guess my arm got crushed.”

Morrison nods his head sadly. “You say the man ‘blurred’ to get over the wall?”

“Yeah,” says Jesse slowly. “Then he also tipped a three metre, solid brick wall onto me?” He ends that sentence with a question mark, because surely, that can’t be right. Can it?

“Hmmm,” is all Morrison offers before getting up out of his chair. “I’ll open a formal investigation. In the meantime, I expect you to heal well. The doctors here tell me you’ll make a full recovery and will be fitted with the latest prosthetic technology—

The door to Jesse’s room slams open and a furious looking blonde woman in a white coat stalks in, glaring at them both. “The doctors here,” she says through gritted teeth, “seem to be the last people to know when their patients are awake.” She stops in her tracks and twitches her eye at Morrison who visibly swallows. “I’m sorry, Commander. Are you making him relive his trauma already?”

“Uuuh—

The woman throws up her arms. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

Morrison points to the door. “I’ll just be leaving now.”

“Good.” The woman waits, hands on hips as Morrison makes a speedy exit. Then she turns to Jesse and it’s like he didn’t just witness her telling the most senior commanding officer of the International Police Corps to kindly fuck off. No, she’s all sunshine and rainbows for Jesse. “Good afternoon, Mr McCree. I am Doctor Zeigler, but you can call me Angela. I’ll be helping you through the recovery process and rehabilitation of your limb.”

_Zeigler._ That rings a bell in Jesse’s memory and his eyes widen as it clicks. “Oh, you helped build Genji’s body?”

It looks as though a shadow passes over Angela’s face, so fast Jesse almost misses it. But then she smiles, it’s softer this time, not so put on. “I did. I have no idea where Reyes and Morrison found that one, but it was a job and a half.” Jesse didn’t know the details, but when Genji had finally opened up about it during a stake out one night, the brief explanation he had offered included ‘brother’ and ‘argument’. Genji had told him he was working through it with a counsellor named Zenyatta, but Jesse was still furious on his behalf. That ain’t no brother in his books.

Angela brings him back to the present. “Genji is your partner, yes? He has told me a little about you.”

“Aw shucks, did he say I was as handsome and charming as I appear?” Jesse grins at her.

She doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Reckless seems to be the word that came to mind whenever he spoke.”

Jesse just laughs nervously and goes to rub his hand through his hair before he realise that hand no longer exists and god, fuck it all, this sucks. The worst thing is, he only has himself to blame.

Angela seems to realise too and says, “apologies. That was uncalled for. I hope you can trust me when I say we’ll have you back to full function in no time. I estimate four months for a full rehabilitation.” She opens her mouth to go on, but Jesse cuts her off.

“Two.”

“Pardon?”

He looks up at her, determined. He was going to fix this and get right back on the tail of those bastards.

“Two months. I’ll do it in two.”

* * *

It was a dull morning in a dull town in a dull country and there was little to keep Hanzo from the trappings of his own mind. He breathes in, holds it, then sighs out again.

_Should have bought a tattoo shop instead,_ he thinks. At least then he might have some customers, no matter how unpleasant talking to them was, to stave away the boredom. He rubs his forehead and looks towards the packet of cigarettes sitting on the counter next to his register. Ah, who is he kidding? No one in the town of Little Nasford would ever get a tattoo.

No one even wanted plants or flowers! What kind of country town florist in the middle of nowhere couldn’t even sell a few flowers? This was just another one of Hanzo’s failures in a long, long line that had started when he was born and had led him to this dead-end, shit-hole of a retirement town full of people too polite to tell him to leave.

Hanzo glances towards the packet again and shakes his head.

_Shit._

He snatches them off the counter and stalks out the front door, turning around the wooden sign that said ‘Back in ten minutes’, bell tinkling as he slams the door behind him.

He exists out of the florist shop just off the main cobblestone thoroughfare of town and turns his nose up in disgust at the beautiful architecture of the old village. The narrow one-way streets wound around each other, difficult to navigate with a car, but delightful for tourists. Not that tourists wanted to buy flowers or plants either.

Hanzo lights a cigarette as fast as he can to avoid thinking about how disappointed his father would be in his poor business decision.

Not that he needed the money… but still.

He takes a drag of the cigarette, closing his eyes as the smoke hits his lungs.

No. This was just a temporary solution. He just needed to work things out. Take it slow. Stop killing people for other people for a little while. Lie low and… think.

He blows out the smoke in an annoyed puff. Except, every time he started thinking, he got angry or depressed or annoyed and that usually led to wanting _not_ to think and wanting not to think meant he had to drink and of course the weight of the flask in his jacket pocket would make itself known to him at this moment because, _yes,_ ten in the morning is still too early for straight liquor.

Hanzo throws himself on to his least favourite bench in this shitty town and smokes the rest of the cigarette like he’s in a race to give himself lung cancer. _At least that might be a little bit exciting!_ He shouts at himself, lighting another off the butt of the first.

He whiles away the rest of his self-imposed break checking the morning news on his phone. Local news was as boring as it got: the yearly Tidy Town awards were soon and Little Nasford was looking like a favourite to win!

_NOBODY CARES_! Hanzo glowers at his phone and switches over to the Japanese National News, knowing it was going to make him homesick, but also knowing that it would distract him from his own personal hell here.

He manages to get far enough into an article about the International Police Corps’ plight against the dying Yakuza syndicates that he doesn’t hear the man approach until it’s too late.

“Oh hey, Mr Washizu,” comes a chirpy voice from in front of him.

Hanzo flicks his eyes up to see a young man with impressive dreadlocks dressed in a loose green shirt and jeans and carrying a shoulder bag with newspapers sticking out of it. His broad smile slips a little when Hanzo doesn’t offer anything in reply.

“Uuuuh,” the young man—Hanzo wracks his brain for a name; Lucy? No. Lucius? No. Luci…Oh? That sounds about right—Lucio bulldozes ahead and holds out one of the newspapers. “Thought you might want your copy now? Some pretty bad news just broke overnight and the Little Nasford Tribune got the scoop!”

Hanzo raises his eyebrows and takes the newspaper with a murmured, “thank you.”

Lucio smiles. “No problem! Have a great day Mr Washizu.”

His departure is lost on Hanzo, as he stares at the front page news.

**SERGEANT SMITH DEAD IN FATAL HUNTING ACCIDENT – details and exclusive interview with Ms Ana Amari on page 3.**

Oh? Oh! Something interesting was happening in this godforsaken village. Hanzo almost rips the newspaper in two as he opens it in a hurry to read the article.

Turns out Sergeant Smith was out hunting on the weekend when he got split from his party. Went missing for a couple of hours before local farmer and retired decorated soldier, Ana Amari, found his body in one of her fields. Poor Smith ended up gored to death, most likely by a wild boar. The article ended by saying the local police were investigating the scene, but were not treating it as suspicious at this stage.

“Terrible news,” the woman’s deep, accented voice makes Hanzo jump. He blinks and looks up at a woman—just shy of fifty perhaps—her head covered by a brilliant blue scarf. She was wearing a long jacket with all kinds of pockets and had an eye patch covering her right eye. Hanzo frowns at her in confusion, the ash from his cigarette dropping onto the cobblestones at his feet.

“I beg your pardon?”

The woman, who Hanzo suddenly recognises as farmer Amari from the tiny insert in the article, nods at the paper in his hands. “Terrible news, what happened to Sergeant Smith. A shocking accident.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes at her, while simultaneously wondering why people wanted to talk to him this morning. Nobody wanted to talk to him. Even the people who sometimes found their way into his shop and attempted to buy plants. “Yes, it does sound like a terrible accident.” Something strikes Hanzo then, “how long had he been out there? Since he went missing.”

Ms Amari tilts her head to the side and takes a few moments to consider Hanzo, judge him most likely, and he blinks as he suddenly realises he might have said something insensitive.

“Sorry, if you don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t—

Ms Amari just hold up a hand. “I’m sure I’ve seen more dead bodies in my lifetime than you, kid.”

Hanzo stares dully at her. “I would not bet on it.”

“Oh?” Amari raises her eyebrow, mouth quirking up while Hanzo mentally kicks himself.

When he doesn’t elaborate, she shrugs. “I don’t think Smith could have been dead for more than a couple of hours. But he went missing the night before. Mighty easy to get lost out there in the forest and the moors beyond. The darn mist just makes it so hard to navigate. My dog found the body right next to the boundary fence.”

“Right…” Hanzo isn’t sure if he should feel this suspicious about an old woman he had just met, but she didn’t make it sound like it was an ‘accident’ in the slightest. “Boundary fence?”

“My land backs on to government property. Military training base all the signs say, but in the last decade, I ain’t never seen a soldier out there training.” Ms Amari shakes her head and Hanzo’s entertainment-starved mind races with the possibilities.

He has to pull himself abruptly back into reality when he realises that the old woman is probably drama-starved as well. Ex-soldier? She must be dying of boredom out here. Indeed, when Hanzo looks back up at Amari, she has a twinkle in her eye and a slight smile curling on her lips. “You take care of yourself now, Mr Washizu.”

“Hanzo,” he replies before he can stop himself.

Ms Amari’s smile becomes a grin. “Hanzo, then. You can call me Ana.” She leans forward and lowers her voice in a conspiratorial whisper, “You ever want a cup of tea and some company to save you from this hell-hole, purgatory pit of a town, you can just come down to my farm.” She flashes her teeth at his startled expression. “I do love chatting to anyone who isn’t a local. We all have interesting stories to tell.”

“Hey Mum!” the yell comes from down the street and Hanzo sees a younger woman, almost the splitting image of Ana, waving her hand and causing the gold rings in her dark hair to flash in the morning light.

Hanzo gives a slight bow to Ana as she turns away from him.

“Good day, Hanzo. I hope to see you sometime.” And then she is gone, walking briskly towards her daughter at the end of the street.

Hanzo stubs out his forgotten cigarette and turns the opposite way, back to his little shop with no customers.

Maybe he would take Ana up on that cup of tea sometime, despite her being suspect number one in the murder investigation that Hanzo’s mind had decided to set up on its own. But honestly, who cares if she was a murderer, she was clearly the most interesting person in this town. Besides, if worst comes to worst over a cup of tea, Hanzo was sure he’d be able to take her.

His lips quirk up as he folds the newspaper under his arm, a spring almost in his brisk steps. Well, these were certainly exciting times he was living in.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesse hurls the pot plant at Reyes’s head.

The man has the reflexes of a cat though and sways to the side, an almost mournful expression on his face as he watches the plant sail past and straight into Commander Morrison’s face.

“What do you mean I’m being transferred?” Jesse shouts at the two Commanders. Morrison goes down with a yelp as dirt sprays all over the room and suddenly it’s pandemonium.

Jesse leaps out of bed and starts yelling, waving his one good arm and one half arm all over the place. Morrison curses from the floor and tries to pick himself up, and Reyes gestures to the plant and the dirt and says, over the top of all the yelling, “is that any way to treat your peace lily?” He squats down and scrapes the dirt back into the plastic pot, propping the poor, wilting plant up again. “Look, you’ve made it sad,” he shakes his head at Jesse and puts the forlorn plant back onto the bedside table. Then he finally looks back at a red-faced Morrison and shrugs, “you alright, Jack?”

Morrison takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, but is interrupted by the sound of heels walking briskly on linoleum floor. All three men are suddenly very silent and very still as the heels come to a stop and Angela’s slim form and wrath-of-god face is framed in the doorway.

“Now. All this ruckus I could hear from my office wouldn’t be disturbing my patient, would it?” she asks in a deathly quiet voice.

Reyes sucks in his cheeks and shakes his head while Morrison and Jesse both look down a mutter a chorus of, “no ma’am. Sorry ma’am.”

“Good. I expect you all to be civil to each other or I will sign a restraining order against the two of you—

“We’re his commanding officers,” Morrison tries to say before snapping shut his mouth again.

“I couldn’t care less if you were his _mother,_ Jack. While he’s my patient, he’s my responsibility. And thus, you will all remain civil in my hospital. Verstehen?” She glares at Reyes for the last bit.

But Reyes holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “You got it doc. I don’t want any more trouble.”

“I’m glad we can at least agree on that,” and with those parting words she whirls around and stalks off down the hallway again.

It isn’t until the sound of her heels fade into nothing that all three officers collectively sigh out.

“That was all your fault you little shit,” Reyes points at Jesse and sits himself down in the only chair in the room, leaving Morrison (and a nasty read mark on his forehead) standing. “And if you ever pull that shit again, I’ll have you suspended without pay. That was your commanding officer you just threw a pot plant at. And now look at it!” Reyes gestures at the spotty green leaves of the lily, two of which have been crushed. “It was meant to be a gift for healing.”

Jesse feels the guilt creep slowly into his chest, not in the least egged on by Morrison’s slowly reddening face and thoroughly unimpressed expression as he crosses his arms and glares at Reyes.

But Jesse stops that guilt in its tracks because, “you said I was being transferred?” His voice gets far too loud for the tiny room and all three of them wince and pause, waiting for the sound of the second coming of the heels. But Angela stays away. Jesse clears his throat and hisses, “transferred? What do you mean I’m being transferred?”

“I mean you’re being transferred. _Technically_ it’s a promotion. Congratulations.” Reyes doesn’t say it like a good thing, he says it like he’s just signed Jesse’s death sentence.

“A promotion to the middle of nowhere ain’t no promotion I want any part of,” Jesse says firmly. He refuses to budge. They can’t just make him leave the city, he was one of the best officers they had! “I’m one of the best officers you have,” he says out loud, just to remind them.

Morrison takes over from Reyes’s terrible bedside manner and uncrosses his arms. “Look, to be honest your track record is all that’s keeping you from being discharged at this point. We did what we could to try and keep you in the city, but the Council isn’t happy about how much you’re costing them in medical bills. Besides, we all read your report. You ignored a direct order from Commander Reyes and broke god knows how many rules of Police conduct. _And_ you not only put yourself in danger, you put your partner in danger.”

Jesse looks down, the shame and humiliation rolling over him once again. When they put it like that, well, a transfer seems almost too good to be true. But still.

“It’ll only be for six months or so.” Reyes takes over again. “Enough time for the heat in the Council to die down, and for you to get your head straight. Maybe a breath of fresh air will do wonders for your common sense.”

Jesse runs his human hand through his messy hair, resigning himself to this fate. “Alright, fine. Where am I going?”

“A town called Little Nasford. Position has just opened up with the local corps. Apparently a guy named Sargent Smith got himself into a nasty hunting accident that ended up being fatal. Tragic stuff,” Reyes says with a cheery voice. “You’ll receive training on the job and a small supplementary income to cover the costs of moving out to the country. Sargent McCree has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Jesse almost hurls the pot plant at Reyes for a second time.

* * *

That was two weeks ago. Jesse put all of his restless energy into the physiotherapy sessions that Angela supervised, strengthening the ruined joint and readying his muscles to take the weight of the new prosthetic. Angela had him on training models for now, slowly getting him to relearn basic actions and trying to recognise the lessened sensation of touch with his new metal arm.

He's four weeks into rehabilitation when Angela comes to him with a rolled up catalogue in her hands. She taps it thoughtfully on her chin while she considers him for a few moments. Then she holds it out. Vishkar Laboratories Autumn Catalogue is on the front page accompanied by a picture of a shiny prosthetic arm. “You’ve surprised me with how fast you’re on track to recovery. I believe you’re almost ready for a permanent prosthetic and therefore you’ll need to pick one out.”

Jesse’s eyes harden. Good, the faster he can get out of this hospital, the sooner he can do this ridiculous stint of country service, and the sooner it’s over, he can return to the city and everything can go back to the way it was. Minus his arm.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself just yet,” Angela says. “You’ll still be getting used to the limb for the next six months and there will be some pain occasionally. If it ever gets too much, give me a call and I’ll prescribe something. And we will need to have bi-monthly check-ups to monitor the nerve endings and muscle rehab.”

Jesse was only half listening as he flicks through the magazine. There were almost too many to choose from. Limbs of all different sizes and shapes. More than a few had little starbursts next to them announcing that ‘multi-tool attachments are available.’ Jesse’s eyes zoom in on one particular model and he points to it. “I like that one.”

Angela looks over it and nods. “That could work.”

It looked cool as heck and quite frankly Jesse was no longer as worried about his missing arm as he should be. Sure, it was going to be a pain in the ass to learn to shoot properly again (thank the gods above he hadn’t lost his right arm), and the balance problems would have to be worked out, but getting a buff metal arm might not be so bad after all. It was a little plain though. He looks up at Angela.

“Hey, doc,” he starts.

Angela’s eyes immediately narrow and she presses her lips together. “Mmmmm?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know how to do custom designs, would you?”

Angela laughs, “oh, is that all. Yes, I might know someone. What did you want done?”

Jesse points to the plain silver of his chosen model. “Well, see here, that’s kind of plain looking don’t you think?” And he leans forward and whispers what he wants on the panel instead.

Angela makes a show of rubbing her temple and trying to hide a smile. “Reyes has rubbed off on you.”

“Reyes is gonna want me back in the City Corps just so he can show off my sick new arm.” Jesse grins at Angela and they share the moment before Angela taps the catalogue.

“I’ll leave this with you for a couple of days before ordering, in case you change your mind. But keep doing the regular exercises and I’ll be able to sign off your fit-for-duty forms in no time.”

“No need to worry about me, Doc.” Says Jesse. “I’ve already made up my mind.” He hands the catalogue back to her. “I’m far too bored to stay in this hospital any longer. Present company not included of course.” He tacks on to the end of the sentence.

Angela shrugs. “If you’re sure, then I’ll move things forward. You’ll only get one free arm though. If you change your mind, I don’t think the City Council is going to pay for it.”

“Ain’t no skin off my teeth. Let’s get this show on the road.”

* * *

The next couple of weeks blur by. Angela signs off on his release forms and he gets to go home with a brand-new arm. He completes his two hours of daily exercises and appointments with a councillor, and soon enough feels like he’s ready to get back into the action.

Reyes and Angela make him wait another week, which he spends languishing in his tiny apartment, annoying his roommate by watching shitty daytime soap operas and doing not much packing at all. He has also discovered that trying to type messages with one hand is far too difficult and probably another reason of many not to have a wall fall on a perfectly good arm. He has taken to messaging Genji with shorthand and copious emojis, which seems to annoy the cyborg far more than Jesse endangering his life.

[Genji] _Please, McCree. Jesse. Just type out the extra letters. I have no idea what kind of language you are using, but it’s not English._

He spent the rest of his spare time looking at maps of Little Nasford, and his new apartment. It was a fully-furnished second storey apartment and he’d be leasing it for the next six months. Pretty sweet deal, if he was honest. The landlord had been overly polite in the few emails they had exchanged, and the location was almost in the centre of town, just off the main thoroughfare.

Then his final Friday in the city rolled around, Angela signed his fit-for-active-duty papers, and Reyes and Morrison told him to come into the office for a final briefing.

He doesn’t expect the surprise party at all and is taken aback by just how many of his colleagues wanted to say goodbye to him. “It’s not forever,” he keeps telling everyone, and they all smile and tell him that it won’t be the same without him, and that he should hurry up and get transferred back so they won’t be bored without his antics.

When he unveiled the new arm to everyone, at least half the room cheered, and the other half rolled their eyes. Reyes pats him on the back and nods appreciatively at the giant skull on the silver plating. “That is a quality custom job. How did you convince Angela to let you mod it?”

“She did it herself,” Jesse replies with a grin. He adjusts his hat and looks up at Reyes, while Morrison seems to be struggling not to roll his eyes too hard. “Must be my natural charm that convinced her.”

“You’re a suck up, McCree.” Reyes shakes his head. “But you’ll be missed. Good luck with the new assignment.”

“About that, sir.” Jesse starts. “I wanted to ask whether anyone was looking into Sargent Smith’s death? There wasn’t much of an investigation from the local police force.” It had happened a good month and a half ago now and Sergeant Smith seems to have faded from the collective memory of everyone.

Reyes shrugs and looks to Morrison.

“There wasn’t an investigation, because there was nothing to investigate. It was an accident,” says Morrison. He looks a little uneasy to Jesse, like he’s not quite happy with his choice of words.

Jesse chews the inside of his cheek, but decides that he could have a look around when he gets to Little Nasford. No use getting worked up about it here. Morrison had bigger things to worry about.

“Any developments in the Talon gang case?” Jesse asks innocently. Reyes had already told him that he was no longer on the case, and that he shouldn’t be asking about it because he wouldn’t be getting any information.

Sure enough, both Commanders immediately have blank faces. Reyes just shakes his head and says, “nope.” Then he sighs. “I’ll tell you now, McCree. The trail has gone cold. After your dumb little stunt, there’s been no movement, and nothing reported from our contacts. So you can drop it. Also, I know you keep pestering Genji about the case and you can stop that too. Officer Shimada has requested negotiation training, and he’ll possibly be moving units.”

Jesse already knew about the negotiation stuff. Genji had been going on about Zenyatta for the last month, and it looks like he finally got the training approved. It had stung a little at first, but Jesse had to tell himself that he wasn’t going to be Genji’s partner forever and that Genji had ambitions too. Didn’t stop him from feeling sorry for himself more than ever. He clenches his metal hand. How could he have been so stupid?

His expression must make it obvious what he was thinking about because Reyes grips his shoulder. “C’mon, Jesse. Enjoy yourself this afternoon. We’re all going out for drinks afterwards and we’d like you to come along.”

Jesse had an early morning train, but hell if that was going to stop him. “Sure, count me in.”

* * *

Drinks turned out to be a horrible mistake, Jesse thinks as he slowly drags himself into the waking world and tries to recognise his surroundings. The floor. His room. His apartment. So far, so good. He has no recollection of how he got back here, but he supposes that doesn’t matter too much. A dull throb at his left elbow makes him aware of the matching throb in his head and he groans as he rolls over, crawling towards the power point where he hopes his phone is. Not there. Urgh. He looks up towards his bedside table, noting the big suitcase and duffle bag sitting open next to an empty wardrobe. His clumsy hand almost knocks over the stupid wilted-looking Peace Lily that Reyes had made him promise to look after as he reaches up and clicks on the screen of his phone.

11:43 am the display reads.

Something tickles his memory. Something important. Jesse connects the dots and his eyes suddenly fly open and he leaps up with a curse. It’s there he sways for a moment, nausea hitting him and then he’s running to the bathroom. How much did he drink last night? He hadn’t gone that hard since he was in his early twenties. His early thirties body was certainly not taking it quite as well as he had back then.

When everything settles down, Jesse ends up shaking his head. _Shit._ There were only two trains a day to Little Nasford, and the second one was going to get him there too late to collect the keys from his landlord.

Jesse kicks himself. Great. Everything was off to a fine start. Just dandy.

He sends off a quick apology email to the landlord, letting him know he would collect the keys on Sunday. Then he books a seat on the late-night train and manages to snag a reservation at one of the few hotels in town.

Before he leaves, he thinks long and hard about ‘forgetting’ to take the wilted Peace Lily, but figures the guilt would probably be too much. Plus, Reyes would never forgive him. That man could hold a grudge until the end of time. So he picks it up and carries it in his arms and all through the long train journey.

He has to change trains twice, and notes with growing despair how the weather is getting colder and colder as he continues up north. By the time he gets to Little Nasford’s train station, it’s eleven at night, raining, and Jesse is feeling the effects of last night tenfold.

He debates whether or not to call a cab as he exits onto the platform, into a chill misting rain, but the maps on his phone tell him the walk isn’t too far. So he wraps his serape around his shoulders and starts trudging up the country lane, the only passenger to get off the train.

The maps lied, Jesse thinks as he finally makes it to the door of the hotel on the outskirts of town. The bell tinkles as he awkwardly drags his luggage in after himself, and the night clerk at the desk in the comfortable-looking common room looks up.

The man was bald and had a bird with its head under its wing sleeping on his shoulder. The nameplate on his desk announced him as Mr Bastion. He smiles at Jesse when he finally makes it to the front counter, taking off his hat and unwraps the damp serape from his shoulders.

“Uh, check-in for Jesse McCree?”

Mr Bastion nods his head and pushes a ledger towards him. This must be one of them old-fashioned places, Jesse thinks as he signs his name against room 203. “Cold night out there,” he tries to make conversation as Mr Bastion hands him the room key and smiles. “Didn’t expect to be arriving this late.”

Mr Bastion just nods, the same smile plastered on his face. The bird twitters once before going back to sleep.

“Uh, ok then. I’ll be going to my room… I guess.” Jesse doesn’t particularly know what to say, but Mr Bastion doesn’t seem to be phased in the slightest. The man nods and points towards a sign that announced check-out was at 11am.

“Right. Well, goodnight,” Jesse murmurs and picks up his luggage to drag it up to the second floor. He makes it into the room just as lightning flashes from outside the window and the rain starts to beat against the windows.

He doesn’t even attempt to unpack and instead falls straight on to the mattress and into a deep sleep.

* * *

Pounding.

Something was pounding in his head.

Hanzo groans. Mumbles a little, trying to tell the pounding to stop.

It doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets worse.

“Hey, are you alive in there?” a distant voice calls in a southern American accent.

_No. I’m definitely dead inside_ , Hanzo’s thoughts respond for him. His eyes are sticky and it takes maximum effort just to try and pry them open. He blinks blearily. Noting that the pounding was coming from his front door and also from inside his head.

Hanzo moves an arm to try and rub his eyes but ends up accidentally smacking himself in the head. _How did it get like this_ , a tiny part of his mind pipes up, somehow alert enough to recognise the situation. He mentally strangles it and tries take two of rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The pounding on his door and in his head intensify.

“Hey, for real. Are you actually alive? I don’t want to be an ass, but it’s getting kind of late and I’d really not like to deal with a dead body before my first day.”

“Mleh,” is all Hanzo can manage to call out, but it seems to be enough and the man stops his incessant knocking.

The brief respite from one set of pounding is short-lived as Hanzo reaches for his phone, or where his phone should be, but isn’t. He swipes his hand around his head, accidentally hitting one of his two cats who was just trying to have a nap near his face. After apologising to Kiki’s butt as she runs off in a huff, he snatches his phone off the spot she had just vacated. Brushing cat fur off the screen, he clicks on the display, briefly blinding himself and trying to understand what someone could possibly want this early on a Sunday.

3:13pm.

“Shit.” So, it wasn’t _that_ early. The notifications on his phone are blurry, but Hanzo recognises at least eight missed calls, twelve text messages and one unread email.

All from the same person. One of the only people that had his number. And one who rudely hadn’t shown up at the appointed time yesterday.

He should probably answer the door.

Hanzo rolls over, but miscalculates horribly and ends up falling out of the bed and onto the floor, flailing his arms and cursing himself all at once. The crash echoes through the apartment.

There’s a pause as Hanzo tries to figure out how to stand up and not vomit at the same time.

“Uh…” the voice from the door starts a little hesitantly. “Are you alright in there?”

Hanzo grunts loudly in an attempted reply and picks himself off the floor. He looks around briefly, part of his brain telling him that it was impolite to answer the door without a shirt on. That part of his brain wasn’t particularly loud however, and since Hanzo could not find the motivation to attempt to pull a shirt on, he decides that common decency can go to hell.

He sweeps his greasy hair back out of his eyes, just now realising he had forgot to take out his piercings before passing out last night, and heavily regrets not being sober enough to have a shower.

He had some heavy regrets about quite a few of his own actions that had led him to this point in his life.

And so, looking the most dishevelled he possibly ever has, Hanzo opens his front door and comes face to face with a cowboy.

An actual cowboy.

An actual, _handsome_ cowboy.

With boots and a hat and even a bright red serape.

Hanzo drags his eyes up the cowboy’s body until he comes to rest on his face. He knew his brain wasn’t quite working to the best of its ability this morn-afternoon because it was taking him longer than normal to process the situation.

The cowboy seemed to be having the same problem. The man’s face was slowly turning a bright red, and his eyes were doing that wide-open thing which generally meant he was surprised.

Hanzo decides that he can’t be bothered to figure out whether the cowboy was real or not, or why he was knocking on Hanzo’s door on a Sunday afternoon, so he gives up. “No, thank you,” he mutters politely and begins to close the door again.

The cowboy suddenly wakes up and jams his foot in the frame so that the door comes to a shuddering halt. Both Hanzo and the cowboy look at the boot stuck in the doorframe and then look up at each other.

Hanzo tries to figure out if he should be insulted by this action while at the same time noticing just how tall the cowboy was, and the way his flannel shirt stretched across his enormous chest and, _god_ he had big brown eyes. It was all a bit too much for Hanzo to try and process this early in the… afternoon.

The cowboy ends up speaking first, blinking his eyes and shaking his head a touch. “Uh, hi.” The man seems reluctant to look Hanzo in the eye and appeared to find something on the ceiling very interesting all of a sudden.

“Hello.” Hanzo tries to close the door again, but the cowboy’s foot doesn’t budge.

The stranger clears his throat and holds out his hand. “Uh, well. I guess you didn’t get my messages. Name’s McCree. Or Jesse. Or whatever you want to call me really…” He trails off for a moment as Hanzo stares at the offered hand.

“I’m your new lodger.”

The final puzzle piece falls into place and Hanzo feels like he’s just had an epiphany. He opens the door a little wider and takes the offered hand, only realising how sweaty and sticky and covered in cat fur his own hand is when it’s too late. And before he can catch up to the reality of the situation, he wipes his hand on his pants.

Then he looks at it in horror. Oh god. That was an insult. He’d just insulted the handsome cowboy.

Hanzo feels his face get hot and he turns away from the door, muttering, “keys,” before the cowboy can see just how mortified he was. He lets the door swing wide and swipes the spare set of keys for the apartment down the hall from his kitchen bench.

He’s _really_ regretting not getting a shirt, but the point of no return had been and gone several minutes ago and Hanzo was committed to this course of action. And when he committed, he really committed.

When he turns back to the cowboy, he catches McCree blinking suddenly and looking away from Hanzo’s chest. “Nice ink,” he mutters as Hanzo comes to a stop in front of the cowboy blocking his way into the narrow hallway.

Hanzo looks down at the dragon tattoo that spirals down his left arm. The blue scales of the dragon almost glint in the dull light of the hallway. He hates it.

Hanzo swallows hard as the memories threaten to rise up and take over his hungover mind. He breathes in. And out. “Mmm,” is all he manages as he waits for Jesse to move out of the way so he can show the man to his new apartment.

McCree doesn’t seem to get the message though, and the pounding in the back of Hanzo’s head is getting worse the longer they awkwardly stand in the doorway.

“Move.”

That seems to wake McCree up and he jerks back a step, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck with a metal hand. Interesting, Hanzo notes, as McCree mutters apologies and shuffles back enough to let Hanzo through.

It takes Hanzo three tries to insert the key into the lock on the door to the second apartment he had decided to invest in back when he believed that coming to this village was a good idea. He could sense the cowboy hovering over his shoulder and wanting to assist, but Hanzo would honestly rather die than let that happen.

He was so good at first impressions.

Eventually, he manages to open the door and leads McCree into the apartment that was almost an exact mirror of his own, albeit the furniture was about two decades older. It was one bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, with a small living space and had cost Hanzo far more than it was worth in his opinion.

Hanzo points to the switches. “Hot water and central heating is there. Garbage collection is Tuesdays. The courtyard below is shared between us, but if you touch my plants I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

Hanzo bites his lip when he realises what he’s just said. He tries to patch it up by continuing on with, “uh, if you need anything, you have my phone number.” He turns on his heel, ready to leave with much haste since he could feel his stomach rebelling against his iron will (and he would rather not finish this disastrous first impression by vomiting in McCree’s apartment) when his eye catches on a flash of green sitting atop the cowboy’s luggage.

Hanzo pauses, running one of the leaves through his fingers and frowning in disgust. “You have overwatered your peace lily. Too much water and it will die.” He looks up at McCree with narrowed eyes. “It is a common mistake to make.”

The cowboy takes two steps back from Hanzo holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Oh, uh right. My bad on that front. Ain’t never had to take care of a plant before, but I’ll do better, Mr Washizu.”

“Hanzo,” the automatic reply leaves Hanzo’s lips before he can stop it. Twice in as many weeks. Why had he picked Washizu if he hated it so much?

“Hanzo,” McCree repeats. “And I just wanted to apologise for catching you at a bad time,” he pulls the front of his hat forward to cover his eyes. “I didn’t realise it was still so early in the day for some people.”

Hanzo can just see the shadow of a grin forming on the cowboy’s face. It feels like the man is mocking him. Was he mocking him? “It’s not a bad time,” he says. “Did I say it was a bad time? Because it’s not—

Hanzo has to bite his own tongue suddenly as his stomach _shifts_. “Good day, Mr McCree,” he manages to spit through his clamped-down teeth as he turns and marches, as quickly as could be considered dignified, out of McCree’s apartment. As soon as he is out of sight he runs. Slams his own apartment door shut behind him and just manages to slide to a stop in front of his toilet before the results of his lonely, horrid night empties itself from his stomach.

Hanzo leans his head against the cool porcelain, finally thinking a little clearer and able to replay the most humiliating ten minutes of his entire life back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo will forever be a mess in my mind lol


	3. Chapter 3

Jesse watches the door to his new apartment swing shut after the most handsome man he’s ever laid eyes on—and his new landlord to boot—makes a hasty exit.

He stands there, shell-shocked, trying to process what had just happened. He lets out a slow whistle and shakes his head before he says out loud the words that have been running through his head ever since his half-naked landlord had opened the door.

“What the fuck?”

He takes his hat off and runs his metal hand through his hair. Well, that was a first meeting for the history books. The poor man, who looked like he could crush Jesse’s head between his perfectly sculpted biceps, had been an absolute wreck. With the piercings, tattoo, and sleek looking undercut, Hanzo could have been a punk rock god. Only, he’d answered the door looking like he’d just woken up—black hair a mess, and with the imminent threat of vomiting on Jesse’s boots at any moment. And he’d smelled like he’d drunk half a liquor store’s worth of alcohol.

From the polite emails of Mr Washizu, and the knowledge that he owned the florist downstairs, Hanzo was definitely _not_ what Jesse had expected.

What kind of man has any right to look like that?

Or more importantly, what kind of town was Little Nasford? If the rest of the village folk looked like Hanzo, well Jesse fancied that he was in for a treat.

He casts his tired eyes over his bags and comes to rest on the dying peace lily. That’s if he managed to survive Hanzo’s wrath first. He gently picks up the lily and takes it over the kitchen window that looks out over the back courtyard below. His eyes widen in awe at the collection of thriving flowers and plants in a hundred different kinds of pots. He had no idea how the courtyard was meant to be ‘communal’. There wasn’t an inch of space free that wasn’t taken up by a something green, or pretty, or alive.

Jesse points accusingly at his own dying peace lily, vowing to find a nicer pot to put it in while also wondering if that would make much of a difference at all. “You better stay alive, partner,” he tells it. “You and me are in this together.”

* * *

Jesse had managed to investigate a little of the town earlier in the day as Mr Bastion had been kind enough to let him leave his luggage in the hotel lobby, or at least he had nodded and smiled when Jesse had suggested it.

Looking back on it now, the townsfolk were sadly not Hanzo lookalikes. Mostly filled with old white people, it was as small and unimpressive as he had imagined it to be. It hosted a farmer’s market on Sunday and Jesse had wondered through the stalls, garnering more than a few strange looks from curious stallholders and locals alike. He supposes that they didn’t see much certified Americana all that often.

There was a large cathedral that dominated the main square and rolling hills and peaks in the distance. It was picturesque, if you went for that small-town countryside feel.

All in all though, the town was decidedly dull. Jesse was going to have to make his own excitement.

Maybe Hanzo could help him?

Jesse blinks. _Get a grip_ , he tells himself. Now was not the time to get thirsty for his hungover, hostile landlord who may or may not want Jesse to die. He had received some pretty mixed messages during that entire interaction.

His stomach chooses this moment to distract him by growling. He glances at the kitchen he knows will be empty of anything edible and resigns himself to trying to find something in town.

Of course, the sky would choose that exact moment to start pissing down with rain and he didn’t have an umbrella. Goddammit. Jesse digs his phone out of his pocket and looks at a food delivery app. ‘Not available in your area’ flashes across his screen and he almost tosses his phone across the room. “You have got to be kidding me,” he mutters and hauls himself off the couch to rifle through the kitchen cupboards just to be positive there wasn’t any leftover food.

A single can of Spam and some mouse droppings were the only items his three second search yields.

He looks at the Spam. Three years over the use by date. Jesse weighs up his options and discovers that between food poisoning and getting soaked in the rain, he would rather get a little wet to eat a proper dinner.

Grumbling about the current situation, he wraps his serape around his shoulders and jams his hat on his head. Just as he opens his apartment door he hears another slam, and there, wearing a high-collared grey jacket with his hair tied neatly up and metal dully glinting from his knees down—prosthetics, Jesse realises—is Hanzo.

Hanzo clearly pretends not to hear Jesse as he swiftly turns and begins to stalk down the hallway to the stairs.

“Hanzo!” Jesse calls out before he can stop himself. His landlord freezes, as if Jesse had just caught him red-handed in some kind of illegal activity.

“Mr McCree,” Hanzo says smoothly as he turns around, tucking an umbrella under his arm. “I did not hear you in the hallway.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. So Hanzo wasn’t above lying directly to his face.

“Please, call me Jesse. Or just McCree. I ain’t polite enough or deserving of a Mr.”

“McCree, then.” Hanzo pauses and they awkwardly look at each other as the seconds tick by. Jesse is more than content to wait for Hanzo to speak first, mostly because he wants to see whether Hanzo will apologise for this morning. Somehow, he doubts it. Just when he thinks all hope is lost and he is going to have to find a new place to live so that he doesn’t have to endure Hanzo’s pretty grey eyes for the next six months, Hanzo takes a deep breath and says, rather bluntly, “what are you doing?”

Jesse blinks and then tries not to snort. Ok, if that’s the way he wants to play it. “Just on my way out to find myself some supper.” He starts forward, aiming to push past Hanzo as rudely as he could. Not a great way to start a relationship, but Jesse was tired and hungry and could do with a damn drink or two before he had to face the next six months of country policework.

“It seems we are headed to the same place, then.” Hanzo steps aside to let him past, but Jesse just stops and looks at him incredulously.

“Place? Singular…There’s only one place in town to eat?”

“Tch,” Hanzo starts down the stairs, not waiting to see if Jesse would follow. “On a Sunday there is. The only saving grace is that it’s the same place that serves drinks.” Jesse can hear the disdain dripping from his voice.

“Well if there’s whisky and a hot meal, count me in.”

“Hmm,” is all Hanzo says as they reach the foyer. He pulls open the heavy blue front door, standing for a moment and frowning at the amount of rain pouring from the sky. Jesse hears him huff a small sigh as he shakes out the umbrella from under his arm and walks off into the evening without a backwards glance.

“Hey wait—

But Jesse’s words are lost to the roar of the rain hitting the pavement. He squints up at the sky for a moment before just deciding to get this over with, ducking his head, and striding off after Hanzo. He catches up relatively quickly, matching Hanzo’s brisk pace, but he can already feel the rain pooling off his hat and slowly soaking into the serape. He shivers a touch and hopes the place with the food has a fire going.

Hanzo glances over at him and does a doubletake, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t have an umbrella?”

Jesse crosses his arms under the serape and ducks his head deeper into its folds. “Can’t say I have much of a memory at the best of times. It’s still by the door in my old apartment.” He can feel the rain starting to drip down his neck. How he managed to forget the one essential item _everyone_ in this goddamn rain-soaked country carried at all times he had no idea.

He peeks back at Hanzo and almost laughs. The man looked like he was fighting some kind of war with the different parts of his face. The way his brows knitted together and he chewed on one of his lips was almost cute. Then he huffs out his breath all at once, sinks half of his face into the wide collar of his zipped-up jacket so that only his eyes appeared above it, and steps closer to Jesse. He holds the umbrella a little higher and Jesse takes it as an invitation to step under it.

“Much obliged,” he says with a smile and receives only a grunt in return. They don’t exactly fit underneath it, what with them both being quite large, but Jesse figures that being half wet and in bitter company is still better than being completely soaked and alone.

They don’t walk for much longer in any case as Hanzo makes a beeline for some cheery looking yellow lights. They cross the cobblestone street and make it under the landing where Hanzo pauses to shake out his umbrella. When he looks up with a questioning eyebrow, Jesse just tips his hat back and motions at the door. “After you,” he only just manages to say before a stream of water that must have pooled on his hat end up running down his back and making him bunch up his shoulders in shock.

Maybe he imagines the tiny snort, but he does see Hanzo’s eyes crinkle just a fraction before he pushes open the door and is promptly lost to the busy pub. Jesse doesn’t even have time to ask him whether he wants to sit and have a meal—he suddenly has a flash of Hanzo’s perfect chest as if carved from marble by a master craftsman—and perhaps that was for the best. The loud din of the pub suddenly hushes as most of the Sunday evening patrons turn to face the newcomers. Or newcomer. Hanzo had completely disappeared, leaving a very rain-soaked and slightly abashed Jesse by himself.

Jesse tips his hat at the pub, says a polite, “howdy,” and begins to unwrap his serape. The clamour starts up again, twofold.

“You must be the new Sargent,” comes a voice from beside him and Jesse finds himself swept inside by a kindly middle-aged woman with a big smile. “I’m Mrs Brewer,” she says walking him over to the bar. “Welcome to Little Nasford, it’s been quite a while since we’ve had anything as exciting as a new police Sargent—baring the annual tidy town awards of course.” She introduces him to her husband, Mr Brewer, and pushes a beer into his hand. “On the house of course.”

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. The townsfolk bought Jesse round after round of drinks and wanted to hear his heroic tales of being a cop in the big city. Now, he wasn’t one to outright lie, but after six whiskeys, Jesse’s life was starting to sound like some kind of noir cop thriller. Maybe he embellished one or two details here and there, but who was he to deny the people an inspiring yarn?

“Quite the hero, aren’t you, Mr McCree.”

Jesse turns, arms half-raised and in the middle of a particularly thrilling recount of taking down an arms-dealing gang (he left out the part where he was one of the gang members), and finds himself face-to-face with a tall, beautiful, and—judging by the accent—French woman. She looks at him from under hooded eyes, expression stone cold.

“That’s nice of you to say Ma’am,” Jesse replies with a smile, “but I ain’t no hero. Just doing my job.”

The woman parts her lips in what could be a smile, but might just be her showing off her teeth. “I’m sure the Little Nasford Overwatch Police Service will be glad to have you with us.”

_Us?_ Jesse squints at the woman, trying to remember the briefing he had received earlier in the week, but that the whisky was doing its damnest to try and make him forget. “Glad to be of service.”

The woman nods her head and turns to leave, before suddenly turning around again, long hair swishing around her back. “Tell me though,” she says as she taps a finger on her perfect ruby-red lips, “how does such a heroic and _noble_ officer like yourself get transferred to Little Nasford? While Sargent Smith’s _accident_ was a community tragedy, we are hardly in need of such a high-achieving replacement like you. Unless…” and she pauses again, eyes calculating, “something happened to force the Commander’s hand?”

Jesse’s left elbow twinges and he jerks his other hand to grab a hold of it. “What’s it to you?”

The woman sees, her eyes flicking down to where he clutches his elbow and she smiles, as if in victory. “You could say I’m personally invested in the local service.” Then she turns her back on him again, flicks up her collar high around her neck, and holds up a hand as she begins to walk away. “I look forward to formally making your acquaintance tomorrow morning, Mr McCree.”

Jesse frowns after her, mood rapidly souring as he rubs some feeling back into his joint. When he turns back to where his audience had been, he finds himself largely abandoned. Frowning down at his half-finished whisky he decides that he should probably call it a night. That, and he’s dying for a smoke.

He leaves a tip on the bar for Mr Brewer and casts his eyes over the slowly emptying pub once more. It’s then that he finally spots Hanzo, way in a shadowy back corner, leaning back and talking to a figure in a hood. They have their back to Jesse, but just as he’s about to look away, Hanzo glances up and catches his eye.

Jesse throws him a tiny smile, adjusting his hat and wrapping the still-damp serape around his shoulders. To his surprise, Hanzo says something to the hooded figure and then smoothly extricates himself from the booth and walks over to Jesse. He seems to skip a step when Jesse grins at him, wondering if a couple of drinks and some food made Hanzo a much more amiable person.

“Heading out for a smoke,” Jesse says when he’s close enough, unsure if Hanzo would want to accompany him.

Hanzo zips up his jacket and pulls a packet of cigarettes from one of its pockets. “I was about to do the same thing.”

They both head outside and light up under the shelter of the awning, puffing away in a silence that wasn’t particularly awkward, but more curious. The rain was now only a light drizzle and Jesse sighs out a lungful of smoke through his nose.

“I have a question for you,” Hanzo begins, then pauses, waiting for Jesse’s approval to go ahead.

He nods, curious as to where this was going.

“Why do you dress like an American cowboy?”

Jesse laughs. Somehow, that was not the question he had expected from a man who looked like he was from a futurepunk videogame. “Been a while since someone asked me that. Truth be told, I don’t rightfully know. Maybe ‘cause I like to bring a bit of home with me, or maybe I’m just a fan of Eastwood, Wayne, and the West.”

Hanzo nods, a thoughtful expression on his face, as if he was storing this information away. “And how does a cowboy find himself in a town like this?”

Jesse leans his head back and looks at Hanzo out of the corner of his eye. _Could ask you the same thing_ , he thinks. Instead of saying that however, he goes with an almost truth. “Got a promotion. Needed to take a break from the city life, y’know, felt like the action finally caught up to me.” Unconsciously, he rubs his elbow, but stops when he realises that Hanzo had noticed. It had started to ache just after they had left the warmth of the pub.

“Your arm. A recent injury?” Hanzo asks the question surprisingly gently.

Jesse grimaces, not particularly wanting to talk about that failing. “Perhaps that’s a story for another time.” He drops the butt of his cigarillo to the ground and grinds it out on his heel. “I’m gonna call it a night. See ya around, Hanzo.” He lazily waves a hand behind him and strides off into the rain.

He regrets this course of action almost immediately. Abrupt and rude, he had just pulled the same act Hanzo had on him. Jesse rubs his tired eyes and sighs, pulling out another smoke as he walks. It didn’t help that Hanzo was distractingly good looking, and an enigmatic mystery. But perhaps not as unfriendly as he had first seemed.

Still strange though. He put it out of his mind for tonight and decides a new day might bring some answers.

* * *

Hanzo watches the strange cowboy walk off into the dark, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. Now that he was—well, perhaps not entirely sober, but close—McCree seems like a strange mix of contradictions. Cocksure and laughing one second, then guarded and moody another. A new metal arm that he was clearly still getting used to, and a promotion he seemingly didn’t want—if the death-sentence style delivery of that bit of information had been anything to go by. All the while dressed like he just stepped out of an old movie. And it didn’t help that he was ridiculously handsome, even if he did wear a belt buckle with BAMF written on it.

Still, that wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as the painfully recent memories of himself acting a fool of in front of Jesse. He hadn’t meant to drink that much last night, but after his new lodger hadn’t shown up and Hanzo had had little to distract himself with, one thing had led to another and he was three sake bottles down and sobbing his entire shameful life story out to the two stray cats who had decided he was their owner now. Urgh.

He used to be heir to an entire dynasty, and now he didn’t have a shred of dignity left.

Hanzo rubs his temples, ash from the cigarette he holds loosely in his mouth falling to the ground. He should leave this silly town in the middle of nowhere. Should go back and find himself more contracts, or maybe he could take up the Major’s offer. Stop using this pitiful charade of a florist, and do what he was born to do.

He takes a final drag of the cigarette and drops it to the ground, the red ember drowning in the puddles between the cobblestones.

Maybe the old Hanzo would have done that. The old Hanzo was more about action than thought. Every death regains honour blah, blah, blah, something, something redemption. What a load of shit. It had been a rather rude awakening when he had come to that realisation.

He sighs out the last of the smoke. He shouldn’t give himself any credit for that. The realisation hadn’t been one of quiet contemplation; it had been thrust up against him. A knife to his throat—come to your senses or die.

Not that death wasn’t an attractable option, he was just too much of a coward to do it himself. And this Death seemed content to give him a second chance.

So here he was, pride in shreds and honour nowhere to be found. But a different path to redemption lay before him. He just wasn’t quite sure how to take the first step.

He chews the inside of his cheek and looks off into the dark where Jesse had disappeared. This Hanzo had more pressing matters to deal with, and a promise to keep. Besides, he knew something important that the old Hanzo hadn’t.

Something that had changed his life. Not for the better. Not yet, at least. He was still deciding.

Perhaps he should take the time to think a little longer.

Things were starting to get slightly more interesting in the town of Little Nasford.


	4. Chapter 4

‘Pressing matters’ turns out to be the start of a regular day for Hanzo. He gets woken up by Momo jumping on his bed and trying to sit on his face while purring loudly. He almost gives in to being suffocated by the fat ginger cat until Kiki decides his tender chest is the best place to try and soften up with her sharp claws.

So, Hanzo gives up on sleep and, rubbing his sore chest, pulls on running gear. He glances out his kitchen window at the pre-dawn light. Autumn was well on its way now, a thin mist winding its way through the streets of the peaceful town.

He enjoyed this part of the morning the most. When there was no one around and he had the quiet world to himself. The cats follow him outside after being fed then disappear off on their own to do whatever it is cats do.

Hanzo breathes in the chill air, stretching his arms and legs before taking off on his run. He knew these streets intimately now, the centre of the little town meandering this way and that, cobbled together a long time before town planning became a respectable art in this part of the world. He decides to take one of his longer routes today, the one that wound around to the outskirts of town and into the more ordered suburbs, before veering off down a country lane and up through the rolling hillside paddocks. The mist was thicker out here and it kept Hanzo on his toes as he tries to maintain his speed while also keeping an eye out for the many bogs and streams that lay hidden amongst the heath on the sheep-grazed hills.

The sun was just peeking its head above the hills and beginning to burn off the mist when Hanzo hears something. A soft crunch followed by the sound of pebbles shifting, clinking together.

He whips his head around, body still as a rock but tauter than a bowstring, eyes straining against the impenetrable white. He stays there, breathing hard but as quiet as he can, listening.

He frowns when he realises just how on edge he was and loosens his stance, balancing on his toes. It was probably just a lone sheep or something. Shaking his head to get the sweat and condensation out of his eyes, he is about to set off again when he hears a ‘whumpf’, like displaced air, just to the left of him.

He almost gets whiplash from turning so fast but is rewarded with a glimpse of a great hulking shape moving impossibly fast, being swallowed up by the mist. And without thinking, or knowing what the hell he just saw, Hanzo takes off after it. He nimbly darts and weaves cross-country, as fast as he can go, trying to listen and jump and see through the mist all at once.

He only manages to glimpse the hulking dark shape once more before it’s gone for good and he almost runs straight into a high chain-link fence. Skidding to a stop, Hanzo frowns at the fence, noting a secondary electrified fence inside the first that ran along the same boundary, both protecting the seemingly innocuous field beyond. Big reflective signs posted to the fences told him that the base was military. AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY. Below an explosive symbol they also stated that the field beyond may contain explosive mines.

He knows exactly where he is now, and frowns a little longer before turning and picking his way back to the track. Knowing it was stupid but doing it anyway, he glances behind himself, trying to figure out what the hell he had just seen.

It had been big. At least eight feet tall, hunched over, yet it had seemed to run on legs.

He was pretty damn sure this country didn’t have any bears in it and the shape hadn’t looked anything like a rogue sheep. Was it that wild boar that had allegedly gored Sargent Smith to death?

Somehow, Hanzo doubted that wild boars even grew that large.

A giant bird perhaps?

Sceptical of his own rationality, Hanzo decides to settle on the shape being a giant owl.

Because surely it can’t have been a person… could it?

He finds himself distracted and his rhythm is off as he begins to run down the path that eventually led back to town again. So distracted and on edge that he almost does jump out of his skin when he comes across a flock of sheep grazing in the last field before the houses started. Swearing loudly, Hanzo clutches his heart and breathes deeply.

He stares accusingly at various sheep, only to be met by dull eyes and a noncommittal ‘Beeehheheh’.

After that, it was just the same dull town again. The few people he passed on the street walking their dogs or off to buy fresh bread said cheery good mornings. Hanzo nodded back, trying to figure out why anyone who didn’t have the kind of history he had would ever choose to come to die in this place.

Because there honestly wasn’t much in this town. Just retirees and people who kept to themselves mostly. There were of course, a number of youths, but they all left as quick as they could once they were old enough to fend for themselves. The military personnel from the training base all seemed to live there and rarely came into town, so anything he had heard about the base being ‘good for Little Nasford’s economy’ was blatant propaganda.

Little Nasford was strange. Like time had simply passed it by and it lay forgotten by the rest of the world. Perhaps that was why he had decided to stay here. It reminded him a little bit of home while also giving him the space to think.

He passes Kiki and Momo lazing on the old church wall as he makes his way back to his apartment, their keen eyes watching him disappear down the cobbled streets. Once he is back in his apartment, he has a hot shower, heats up some rice and cracks an egg over it. He makes a mental note to do some shopping later after he sees the state of his fridge, and then it’s down to his shop to tend to the plants he had neglected during his very hungover Sunday afternoon. His face heats up as he remembers lecturing McCree about his peace lily, all the while forgetting about his own business.

Why was he like this?

He sighs as he makes his way around his little shop. Simultaneously a plant nursery and florist, he had decided he would need something to occupy himself with while he tried to make a decision about what to do with the rest of his life. And taking care of plants was nice. They didn’t talk to him, weren’t annoying, but they also had their own charm and personalities. Not at all like the few customers he received.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hanzo knew his pure hate of customers and lack of service skills were probably the reason he received so few of them. He shrugs it off however, not like he needed the money anyway.

Just as he’s clipping the few wilted flowers off one of his orchids, something makes him look up and out the front windows. It’s then that he catches sight of McCree letting himself out of the foyer door. The cowboy no longer looked like a cowboy. He was dressed in a smartly pressed Overwatch Police Corps uniform, white shirt, black tie and dark-blue sweater over the top. He seemed to be making his own ridiculous fashion statement by foregoing the standard issue cap and replacing it with his cowboy hat. Hanzo wonders a little too long about whether he would get away with that from the Inspector, because McCree looks up and into the shop and catches Hanzo staring at him.

He can’t even look away either. That would make it obvious he had been staring. Hanzo’s heart quickens and his face slowly heats up the longer they stare at each other.

Then, McCree smiles slyly and gives him a not-very-coy wink, tipping his hat in greeting. McCree must have found the sour expression Hanzo’s face involuntarily makes quite funny because he bursts into laughter, grinning wide as a cat before lazily saluting Hanzo and going on his way.

As soon as he is out of sight Hanzo drops his thoroughly red face into his hands. Gods above, he was acting like a schoolboy with a crush. He needed to get a grip.

The day passes slowly. Kiki comes to visit him through the cat flap he had installed out the back door and makes herself at home on his front counter. All after trotting her filthy paws all over his leger book. He receives his Nasford Tribune delivery from a spritely Lucio, ignoring the front page spread about the definitive ranking of famer’s markets in the Shire (Little Nasford of course was number one), and turns to the other editorial that catches his eye.

‘Local Woman Reported Missing, Family asks for any assistance from the community.’ Hanzo frowns at the article, face darkening as he reads further and further. This was the second missing persons case in the last few weeks. He glances at his phone, eyes passing over the packet of cigarettes. Maybe it was too soon to call this suspicious, but he should probably make sure _she_ knew. Kiki looks at him accusingly as he reaches for the cigarettes, deciding that it would be easier to think with a clear head.

“I’m cutting back,” he tells her. She just stares at him with that same expression and Hanzo, remembering that she was an English cat, repeats the phrase.

She just blinks and turns her back to him, disappointment radiating off her hunched shoulders.

But Hanzo, refusing to be made to feel guilty by a cat, bangs the ‘back in ten minutes’ sign on the door to the shop and finds his usual bench to sit on.

He does send the text, getting an immediate reply telling him to watch out for himself and to keep an eye on anyone new in town.

He’s almost lulled into a false sense of security as he smokes and watches the townsfolk go about their business (simultaneously looking for anyone acting strange but quickly realising this was a futile activity since it was just a regular Monday morning for Little Nasford) when his phone buzzes again.

Hanzo stares down at the screen. And swallows the sudden lump in his throat.

The number that flashes isn’t one he’s saved a name to, but it’s one he knows off by heart.

The message reads:

_Hey Hanzo… just checking in. I would really like to see you again, or you know, talk to you… wherever in the world you currently are._

He stares at the message, frozen in place with his eyes wide like a rabbit caught in a pair of headlights, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him.

“Shit,” he mutters aloud. Abruptly he stands up, shoving his hands and phone into his jacket pockets to stop them from shaking.

Then his phone buzzes again.

It takes him the space of ten quick heartbeats before he has enough courage to peek at the screen.

_Btw, I totally adore your insta pics of your cats. you should let me meet them._

A string of emoji cats follows the words.

Hanzo blinks.

What.

“Shit,” he says again, but this time with a rising panic and more than a little humiliation.

How the fuck had Genji found his Instagram? All he did was post pictures of the cats lazing around the shop! None of them had him in it. He’s never even taken a selfie in his life.

Now he was furious with himself. If Genji had found him online then surely the other number of contractors and Yakuza members that were after his blood couldn’t be far behind.

He stares suspiciously at the rooftops of the cobblestone lane, blood pumping in his ears, paranoia making every muscle tense.

But so far, Little Nasford is devoid of any snipers or assassins this Monday morning.

Digging his phone out of his pocket again, he looks at Genji’s message. He scrolls up, grimacing at the dozen or so other messages that he never responded to and starts tapping out a long-winded reply about needing more time, and being sorry, and shamed, and guilty, and…

Hanzo deletes it. Just the same as the other replies he has typed out before. He lets himself back into the shop, little bell on the door twinkling, and is about to put the phone away when he spots Kiki.

She’s still on the counter where he left her. Still unimpressed with him. Her black spotted tail swishing side to side.

And that finally does it. Something about Genji’s message annoys him. There was no way. _No way_ he could have found out about the cats. Hanzo was meticulous. There weren’t any kind of identifying factors in the photos, he’d made sure of that. Nothing to identify the shop, or him. So how had Genji found out?

[Hanzo]: _How do you know about the cats?_

His finger hovers over the send button, his heart hammering. He glances back at Kiki only to see her staring at him over her shoulder. _Do it, you coward_ , the expression seemed to say. Hanzo narrows his eyes at her and hits the send button.

He almost drops his phone in surprise when it buzzes not even a second later. Hesitantly, he clicks on the message.

[Genji]: _HOLY SHIT_

Then another pops up.

[Genji]: _You replied.  
_ [Genji]: _You actually replied.  
_ [Genji]: _Only took you six months. ffs. If I had known the stupid cat pictures were going to do it then I would have said something sooner. I was beginning to think you had given me a wrong number._

Hanzo threw his hands in the air, letting out a frustrated noise.

[Hanzo]: _How long have you known about the cats????  
_[Hanzo]: _AND HOW DO YOU KNOW?  
_ [Genji]: _Hahahaha calm down._

The typing symbol appears for a few moments and Hanzo impatiently taps his fingers on the front counter. He frowns at the phone, nostrils flared, channelling his shame into frustration rather than letting it morph into fear that would make him throw the phone away rather than just replying.

He’s considered it before.

Then, a picture pops up on screen. It’s Kiki, from about two months ago. She has her head tipped up, eyes closed in pleasure as his hand scratches the underneath of her neck.

[Genji]: _I had a shit day at work so I went to the cats tag and browsed pictures to make myself feel better. Saw this one. Your tattoo is showing._

Hanzo squints at it and sure enough, peeking in the bottom right hand corner is barely an inch of his tattoo. Not even enough spiralling cloud and peeking lightning to be recognisable as such.

[Genji]: _It may have been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I know Master Kenju’s work anywhere.  
_[Genji]: _I used to have a matching one._

Hanzo takes a step backwards, dropping his phone like it was a viper. It clatters on the counter and he begins to feel himself spiral. _Of course he would recognise it_. Genji was… is… Of course… Of…

He’s breathing hard. Almost gasping.

What had he done?

What had he done.

A soft bump on his forearm distracts him and he looks down at Kiki. She bumps her head against him again, purring. Then she saunters over to where he had dropped his phone and sits next to it. It buzzes and Hanzo can feel himself shaking, absolutely terrified and for once in his life not afraid to admit it.

He reaches over and taps the screen, Expecting an admonition. An ‘are you fucking sorry?’. Something to remind Hanzo of the fact that he had dealt the blow that had destroyed his brother five years ago.

Instead, Genji just casually strolls past that part of the conversation, oblivious to Hanzo’s imminent panic attack, and types:

[Genji]: _Why do you post cat pics on instagram anyway?  
_ [Genji]: _I thought you were above that kind of stuff lol_

Hanzo stares at the message. His spiralling thoughts abruptly halted by Genji’s seemingly playful tone.

Well, he could hardly say it’s because he actually enjoys the shallow validation of fake internet points now, could he? He bangs his head on the counter and groans.

Eventually, he gathers enough will to lift his head and snaps a quick picture of Kiki’s unimpressed expression, sending it off without thinking too hard.

[Hanzo]: _Because cute cats are worth sharing._

He feels wrung out. His insides twisting and shifting and the guilt constricting his chest. But somehow that all pales in the face of the fact that he was talking to his brother. His actual brother.

About cats of all things.

This was not how he had expected today to go.

[Genji]: _Ahhh! I love them! What’s their name?_  
[Hanzo]: _Her name is Kiki.  
_[Genji]: _omg I totally knew that was one of your favourite movies! You are such a liar!  
_[Genji]: _Also, I can’t believe you’ve adopted cats??? What’s the other one’s name? The fat orange one?_

Hanzo can feel his ears burning. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

It’s at this moment that a customer—Mr Boarder, an old man wearing a sweater and spectacles—decides that it’s the perfect time to come into the shop, the little bell tinkling to announce his entry.

He smiles pleasantly and holds up a hand in greeting. “Good morning Mr Washi…zu…” He trails off, smile wilting off his face the longer Hanzo glares at him. He coughs awkwardly, backing away. “This must be a bad time. I’ll come back later.”

Turning on his heel, he makes a hasty exit from the shop.

Hanzo swears. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he stalks over to the door, slamming the bright ‘Come in, we’re open’ sign to the other side. His phone buzzes again but he pays it no mind, taking a moment to get his breathing under control and his thoughts in order.

He needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere private.

The courtyard. Hidden away, almost underneath the towering stacks of brightly flowering plants from all over the world, he sits on the low stool he uses for getting to the higher up stacks and looks back at his phone.

[Genji]: _Hanzo?_  
[Genji]: _Hey are you still with me_  
[Genji]: _cmon don’t do this again_  
[Genji]: _Pllllllleeeeeease_  
[Genji]: _they’re just cats. Tell me about your cats_  
[Genji]: _HAAAAANZZZOOOO_  
[Hanzo]: _His name is Momo_  
[Hanzo]: _I didn’t adopt them. They are strays._  
[Genji]: _MOMO. M O M O !!!!!!!!_  
[Genji]: _Hanzo you haven’t stolen someone’s cats have you?_  
[Hanzo] _: What? No._  
[Hanzo]: _They won’t leave me alone_  
[Genji]: _Do you feed them?_  
[Hanzo]: _Of course I feed them._

He hears a scratching noise and glances up to see Momo jump over the high garden wall, landing with the grace of a dancer despite his considerate rotundness. The soft ginger pads over to a flourishing pot of Hanzo’s prized gardenias and promptly curls up on top of them, crushing them completely.

He snaps a photo of the adorable ginger and is halfway through the filters section of Instagram before he realises what he’s doing.

Hanzo puts his face in his hands and groans. He was getting weak.

In his defence though, who would be heartless enough to move a cat as cute as Momo from his comfortable position? Momo smiles up at him contentedly and perhaps a little too smug for his own good.

[Genji]: _I’m no expert. But I’m pretty sure if you feed the cats then you’ve adopted them_  
[Genji]: _Does this mean I get to be their cool uncle?_  
[Hanzo]: _I have not adopted them!_  
[Hanzo]: _But... I suppose you can still be their uncle_  
[Hanzo]: _If you want…_  
[Genji]: _YES_  
[Genji]: _I want to see them!_  
[Genji]: _and you…maybe in a situation where we aren’t trying to kill each other lol_

Hanzo swallows, but finds he has a rather difficult time of it. He ignores the last bit of Genji’s comment and spends the time typing out his reply.

[Hanzo]: _I would like to see you too… but I still need some time to sort things out. Perhaps in a few weeks? I can visit you wherever you are in the world._  
[Genji]: _And deny me the chance to meet your cats and crash at your new digs? Hell no. I’m going to visit you._  
[Genji]: _I can get some time of work._

Hanzo sits back and looks up at the sky. Genji has a job. A new body. A life.

Somehow, he has managed those things despite what Hanzo had done to him. And all the while he still sounds irrevocably like Genji. Like nothing had changed and they were still the brothers who had laughed and fought and laughed again. It was difficult to reconcile that with the memory of Genji’s remains lying smoking on the ground, the horror that had filled him and the shame that would never leave him, no matter how many years passed.

But here was a chance to make good of the amends he had promised when Genji had confronted him a year ago.

The enormity of what this means stretches out before him, the path finally bright before his eyes. And there, holding out his hand willing to show Hanzo the way, is his brother.

He does not deserve this.

But the hand beckons to him and he feels himself take the first step.

[Hanzo]: _Ok. I look forward to meeting you._

Just before the weight of what he has committed to crashes over him he sends Genji the picture of Momo asleep on his gardenias.

Because cute cats are worth sharing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo is a garbage tier human being and posts cat pictures on instagram. fight me.

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm... yeah.... got about halfway through writing this thing before I dropped it and it languished in my WIP folder for a year. I recently found it again and figured I'd share it? I don't know, it's weird and dumb but also kind of funny? If you like it, let me know and hopefully I can finish it?
> 
> Sort of set in an Alternate future where Overwatch is a global police force, I guess? (don't @ me with how bad of an idea that is, I know)


End file.
